


this is how it feels to take a fall

by Analyse (D_Willims)



Series: it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry [15]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: But I Love Allison To Death So, Gen, Honesty It's Kind Of A Mess, It's Really Just About Allison, Very Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Willims/pseuds/Analyse
Summary: Allison is a haunted house. A character study.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Patrick, Allison Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Claire & Allison Hargreeves
Series: it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1288121
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	this is how it feels to take a fall

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from "Icarus" by Bastille.
> 
> Series title from "One Week" by the Bare Naked Ladies.

Claire is barely walking before Allison starts teaching her to throw a punch. To kick, to bite, to _get away_. It’s nothing like what she went through. The training under Reginald Hargreeves. That was turning children into soldiers. And this…

This is about self-defense. About making sure Claire feels safe. Secure in the knowledge no one can ever lay a finger on her without her permission.

“What are you so afraid of, Allie?” Patrick asks her once. He sits on the edge of her bed and motions for her to come forward. Folds his arms around her hips when she steps close enough. It feels like they’re playing out a scene.

“Allison,” she corrects automatically. Habitually. Next line. She brings her hands up to cradle his face. “And I’m afraid of _nothing_.”

Lying to Patrick is easy. That’s all their relationship has ever been. Lies and scenes and that greedy, empty need behind his eyes. The desperate void that Allison had been happy to hold because it was warm and safe. Because there was nothing inside her, either.

Luther has never believed her lies. Not really. He sees right through her with those soft, sad eyes.

When the gunfire starts, she freezes. And he sees right through her. She can’t lie to him.

His hand cups the back of her head and his elbow presses between her shoulder blades. Drives her forward. “Move, Number Three,” he hisses. An order. Because he’s the leader—no matter how undeserved.

Some things just stay broken.

She’s pushed. Stumbles through the halls lined with their familiar-and- _strange_ -all-at-once instructional pictures. Disarm. Punch. Stab. Allison thinks of Claire whose almost five; Dad would have her fighting by now.

Dread churns in Allison’s stomach. Instinct takes over.

“Stand and _fight_ , Number Three,” Dad’s voice is sharp in her head. Each syllable pronounced so sharply it’s like a dagger through her. Shivers run down her spine.

Get away, get away, get away, _get away_.

The warm wood of the table turns to cold metal beneath her cheek. Her arm aches with a phantom pain. A fan spins lazily above her, stirring her hair ever so slightly. It feels like hot breath on her skin and smells like rotting flesh.

Doctor Terminal. Gone. Alive forever in her memories. In action figures and comic books that line the halls. A pain exploited for Dad’s greed.

All she needs to do this time is _get away_. She reaches out with her other hand. Seizes on a knife.

Diego hesitates when he takes the knife from her. Fleeting but there. Real. Allison can see it in his eyes. The concern that flits past. It seems to silently ask, “Since when do you back down from a fight?”

Out loud, she says, “Get her.” She’s better off without her powers.

“I heard a rumor…” she says.

“Stop. Talking,” Vanya screams. Screams and screams and _screams_ and for the first time Allison hears her. Really hears her.

Blood overflows the space between her fingers. As if they were never really there. They might as well not be; they aren’t hers. Not really. But she still reaches for Vanya, tries to hold onto her sister. Keep her from slipping away. She had slipped away so many times before.

There’s no air in the room when Allison wakes up. _She wakes up_. Luther is heavy. Clutching at her hand, whispering secrets into her palm. Talking about things he doesn’t understand. His pain weighs on her and she wants to push him away.

Two thoughts collide in Allison’s head. Where’s Vanya, they need to find Vanya, Vanya isn’t safe. And she’s never going to be able to sing Claire to sleep again, to tell Claire stories. To hold Claire close and tell her how fucking _proud_ of her she is.

And then relief washes over her like a tsunami. Crushes her chest. For the first time, she wakes up in a body that feels like hers. In a life that feels like hers. Without the sense that things are moving inside of and outside of her control. Allison is never going to be here again. Hurt and scared and playing Dad’s fucking games.

Never.

Except her brothers are idiots. And the gunfire starts up again. Allison can’t breathe, can’t move. Can’t do anything except hide uselessly behind a rack of bowling balls.

Klaus is the one that presses his hand to her head this time. Turns her into him, towards the hollow of his stomach. Comforts her. Stiff and awkward. It’s _infuriating_. He’s always been the crybaby, the one who can’t pull himself together long enough to even be the lookout. She’s not supposed to need him.

It had _suffocated_ her. Klaus wrapping gangly arms around her neck and crying so long and so hard. Over and over and over again. Just another thing that had pushed her out of the house. That pulled her back because deep down it really was comforting that Klaus hadn’t changed.

Something happened. Klaus finally grew up.

Even worse is that it works. The vise around Allison’s lungs loosens and she can breathe again, think again. Figure a way out of this.

Push forward. Keep pushing forward.

Through the Commission’s men and the apocalypse and all of space and time and the endless _bullshit_.

Until Claire is in her arms again. And something in the world feels right again.

Almost right. The house makes Claire fussy, keeps her awake at night. She doesn’t like the way it settles around them. Or maybe she’s just sensitive to the way bad energy seems trapped in dark corners.

Either way, Allison ends up pacing the halls at night. Rocking Claire back to sleep. Past the pictures of violent children and the cases of old merchandise and Dad’s collection of bizarre trophies. Around Mom’s gallery and the balcony above the parlor.

Until she’s standing in Dad’s office. Children aren’t allowed in here. That’s the rule. Claire breathes slow and sleepy against Allison’s neck. Her tiny fingers curl around the faint scar on her mother’s arm.

Behind her, Allison swears she can hear Patrick. If she closes her eyes, she can see him again. Sitting on the end of their bed. Watching her with their baby. “What are you so afraid of, Allie?” he whispers against her skin. Wraps his fingers around her hair and slides it over her shoulder like a curtain, presses his lips against her neck.

When she opens her eyes, her father stares down at her. Cold and hard from a painting. Disapproving. As unreal as Patrick but indistinguishable from how he’d been in life.

“Nothing,” Allison mouths. She presses a kiss to her daughter’s soft curls. There’s was no power without her voice. But she still has the lie. The desperate, hopeful lie. “I heard a rumor I’m afraid of _nothing_.”


End file.
